


Dominus

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Caning, Caring, Collars, Conversations, Cuddling & Snuggling, Discipline, Dom/sub, Dominance, Kissing, Love, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Restraints, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:32:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A good master knows when to punish and when to soothe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dominus

   A good master knows when to punish and when to soothe.

    Moriarty lies on the bed, propped up by two pillows, looking very calm and composed. Stripped to his shirtsleeves; his boots off (of course; it would not do to leave dirty boot-marks on the bed linen); hair neatly brushed back off his forehead, nothing of his recent exertions shows upon his countenance. He appears perfectly calm and composed as he reads a copy of _Récits de l'infini_ and sips from a glass of fine cognac.

    Contrast this then with Moran, kneeling upon the floor, stark naked unless one counts the gag tied in his mouth or the leather collar buckled around his throat and the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, or the chains which bind his arms together behind his back, link his wrists to his ankles and pull his head down so his chin nearly touches his chest.

     The colonel still bears the red lines across his buttocks and the backs of his thighs from the cuts from the professor’s cane, each blow precisely and carefully delivered to sting and to mark but not to permanently injure him. The colonel is far too precious for that but it matters that Moran remembers his place – not as some cowed slave incapable of thinking or acting for himself, but that he does not forget that he is subordinate to Moriarty. When Moran plays up, as he invariably does from time to time, it is necessary that the professor disciplines him and ensures that while he understands he may be permitted to have dominance over Moriarty in the bedroom very occasionally, it is not a permanent arrangement.

     “You forget yourself, Colonel,” Moriarty had said to him, his eyes seeming very dark and very dangerous.

     And Moran had looked at him with a clear mixture of scorn and intrigue, laughing as the professor advanced towards him. “Do I now?”

     “You do,” the professor had answered, smiling a peculiarly reptilian smile.

     Moran is a skilled enough fighter, not much one for abiding by the Queensbury rules, more the kind to fight quick and dirty and have no particular problem with head-butting his opponent or kicking them in the balls if it will bring them down faster. But even though he is still leanly muscled and seemingly far fitter than Moriarty, the professor is always still too quick for him somehow. Or maybe… maybe it’s just that he doesn’t really _want_ to fight him.

     When the professor grabbed him and pinned him face down over the bed Moran did not struggle. His trust in Moriarty is far too great for that, and his interest was piqued also by the professor’s behaviour. He tensed up, Moriarty noted, but the tension seemed to be of a kind that implied anticipation rather than resistance. He was prepped to take further action if needs be but not expecting for this to become necessary.

     “The question is, my dear Moran,” Moriarty had said, “what I should do about this.”

     “You could fuck me into submission,” Moran said, only adding a beat or two later, with more than a hint of mockery, “ _sir_.”

     “Yes, I could,” Moriarty said softly into Moran’s ear. “But that would not really be a punishment, now would it?” He had remained on top of his lover for a few moments more before stepping away from him.

     Moran glanced up at him but made no attempt to get up off the bed. He had only watched and waited, an expression of vaguely contemptuous amusement upon his face which had barely shifted when Moriarty said, still so very softly:

     “Stand up, and strip.”

     “Sir-”

     Moriarty immediately quirked an eyebrow at this. “Are you refusing me, Colonel?”

     Moran seemed to consider this question for a second before he dropped his gaze to the coverlet. “No sir.”

     “Then, as I have already ordered you to do once, stand up, and strip.”

      And Moran had obeyed, though hardly being passive even in his obedience. Still he was cocky and provocative, fixing his gaze deliberately and unflinchingly on Moriarty’s as he removed each item of clothing, making a show of undoing buttons and braces and laces, trying to stir some further reaction from the professor.

      “You are such a child, Sebastian,” Moriarty remarked dispassionately as Moran, his hands linked together above his head, wiggled out of his drawers and idly kicked them aside, flaunting his nudity rather than being ashamed of it.

     “Not where it counts, Professor.” Moran grinned wickedly as he ran his cupped hand briefly down his cock from root to tip. “Where it matters I’m all man, see?” He was, the professor observed, beginning to grow slightly hard.

     “Did I give you permission to touch yourself there, hmm?” Moriarty queried.

     Moran, still grinning, looked up at him again, his eyes dark and with something just as dangerous as in Moriarty’s showing within them. It reminded the professor (not that he had ever really ceased to remember) that Moran had killed far more men than he ever would; that this magnificent tiger would never be anything more than tamed, not domesticated. Who better though than Professor James Moriarty to tame him?

     “No sir,” Moran said, smirking still. “I reckon you’ll have to punish me for that an’ all now.”

     “Indeed.” A small smile flickered across Moriarty’s face. “I believe I will.”

     And he did, with Moran splayed out under him over the edge of the bed, Moran’s wrists cuffed to the bedstead and a crude gag made from a clean handkerchief tied in Moran’s mouth, less to muffle any potential cries of pain (Moriarty is not opposed to hearing those) but more to quieten the colonel’s verbal taunting.

     “I could always put the ball gag in instead, Colonel,” Moriarty had informed him pointedly when Moran had continued to curse even through the fabric gag. He would himself prefer not to use that, knowing that it is uncomfortable in a way that may prove too distracting to Moran, and disliking too just how much it quietens him. Although Moriarty is adept at reading all of his companion’s body language and understanding when enough is enough, he feels that the sounds Moran can make even with a fabric gag in are extremely valuable in gauging his response and receptiveness to a particular act. Besides, he has to confess (if only to himself) that Moran’s stifled exclamations and curses rather excite him in a way he feels his lover’s cries being almost completely muffled would not.

     Twelve strokes of the cane were given, fewer than he has delivered on a few rare occasions but still twice as many as is more usual. He knows though that Moran can take a dozen easily. Each was delivered carefully, mindful to avoid the most vulnerable parts of Moran’s body, with Moriarty allowing enough time between each blow to make sure Moran fully experienced all of the sensations of each strike, until Moran was tugging futilely at his restraints and reduced to little more than an incoherent sobbing (and desperately aroused) mess under him.

     After such exertions Moran needed a little time to recover and so here they are, Moriarty reclining on the bed, Moran kneeling on the floor.

     The colonel is quiet now. He looks still in complete disarray, Moriarty notes (not with displeasure) – his hair is tousled and sweat-soaked; his cheeks are streaked with dried tears (a simple physical response to the pain, the professor is certain, not an indication of anything more emotional); then there are of course the welts across his buttocks and thighs, one of them oozing the tiniest bit of blood. He has begun to shiver noticeably, causing the chains to clink rhythmically, which is the point where Moriarty decides that Moran has been there for long enough.

     The professor sets his book aside and slides off the bed. He strolls languidly towards Moran, not rushing things, still wanting to savour the sight of his bound, caned lover kneeling before him. “Sebastian, pet,” he says, ruffling Moran’s hair gently. “I am not sure you have learned your lesson yet.” He can feel Moran’s tremoring beneath his hand, the colonel trembling with cold and the after-effects of the caning, no doubt, but also perhaps a little from nervous anticipation. Moran knows that the professor is not yet finished with him. “I fear that you have yet to remember your place.” He stoops and unfastens the chains that bind Moran’s wrists to his ankles and that which runs from his ankles up to his collar. “I think this is something that I shall have to rectify.” He removes the ankle cuffs entirely but decides to leave the wrist cuffs and collar on for now, liking the sense of ownership this implies even when they are being put to no practical purpose. He undoes the chains shackling Moran’s wrists together next and tosses the chain into the pile on the floor. He will though, he thinks, leave the chain attached to the collar.

     As the wrist chains clatters to the floor, Moran drops forward completely onto all fours and presses his face against Moriarty’s leg. Instead of chastising him for this, Moriarty pets his hair, running his hand down through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, stroking down the top of his spine.

     “My sweet boy,” he says softly. “I know that you want to please me.”

     Moran, his gaze still lowered, makes a muffled sound that would seem to be confirmation.

     “And that when you have lapsed in your obedience it is I who is primarily at fault. I blame myself, Sebastian, for not disciplining you as often as perhaps I should.”

      Moran nuzzles dog-like at Moriarty’s hand, savouring that brief contact, before Moriarty pulls sharply at the chain attached to his collar.

     “Get on your feet, Sebastian.”

      Moran, head still bowed, rises stiffly, seeming to wince at the change in position and the pain this causes him.

     “Bend over the bed, pet.”

     Moran glances back at Moriarty, meeting his gaze and holding it still with a degree of insolence in his eyes,  resisting him for just a second too long, and swiftly Moriarty has Moran’s arm twisted up behind his back, pushing him down onto the edge of the bed.

    Moran gasps through his gag as the professor’s knee presses hard against the small of his back, pushing him down onto the towel draped over the side of the bed. The fabric of Moriarty’s trousers brushes over his bruised skin, further inflaming his sore hide.

     “Still you are challenging me, my dove?” Moriarty says, lifting his other hand to rub the back of Moran’s neck, down to between his shoulder-blades, with his knuckles. “Will I have to break your spirit entirely, my boy?” He gives Moran’s arm another slight twist, enough to hurt; not enough to cause injury however.     

     Moran is panting into his gag from a mix of pain and arousal, and he groans thickly at this sharp burst of pain. His free hand clenches into the coverlet.

     “You forget yourself, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him, releasing his grasp on Moran’s arm but leaving one knee pinning his lover to the bed. “You forget your place; you forget which of us is the master and which of us exists only to _serve_.” He smiles thinly as he pulls the small vial of oil out of his waistcoat pocket. “It seems that you require a further reminder, do you not?”

      Moran, his head bowed once more, glances at him for just a second, and there is such need and longing in his eyes – he cannot mask that any longer behind his playful challenges towards Moriarty’s authority. The corporal punishments are all very well but he still needs more than that to feel fully that he is _owned_. He presses his forehead against the bed when the professor slides an oil-slicked finger into him, muffled words escaping him as both of his hands clench into the bed covers. The leather cuffs remain buckled around his wrists; still that collar is about his neck, but there are no chains now holding him in place, only those mental bonds that tether him irreversibly to the professor.

  _“Professor, Professor, Professor,”_ is what he is saying, even through the gag. A litany pouring out of him without thought as Moriarty works his oiled fingers within Moran. He is still trembling and Moriarty still strokes his back with his left hand, rubbing slow, reassuring circles over his tender skin.

     The professor does not take too long about the preparation. At times teasing Moran in such an intimate way is immensely exciting for both of them, but not tonight. This first part must be quick and a little rough both for its symbolic value and for the simple fact that he is aware that Moran will not last very long either before he spends, and so he soon withdraws his fingers, wiping them hurriedly off on the towel before he unbuttons his own trousers and straddles Moran. Gripping the colonel’s hips with both hands, he pulls him into the optimum position, letting Moran feel the professor’s erection pressed against his sore backside. Then, as Moran pants and gasps and bucks under him, the professor works his prick up inside the colonel with steady pressure; with firm thrusts that are just on the very edge of being exquisitely painful, opening him up further. Moran practically sobs again as Moriarty plants himself fully within his companion and just stays there for a few seconds, taunting Moran now with his momentary inaction.

  _“Please,”_ Moran cries through the gag.

     Moriarty smirks slightly as he reaches up to drag the damp fabric roughly from Moran’s mouth, not untying it but simply letting it fall down around his throat to rest next to the leather collar. Then he slides his hand down, across Moran’s chest, pulling him closer, arching the colonel’s bare back against his own still clothed chest. There he begins to fuck him again, withdrawing a little before pressing roughly back into him, rocking his hips to drive more deeply into his lover.

     “Do you remember your place, Sebastian?” he hisses between thrusts.

     “Yes! Yes sir!” Moran gasps, his voice hoarse and breathless.

     Moriarty moves his left hand to Moran’s throat, grabbing him below the collar, holding him tightly. “Who is your master, Sebastian, hmm?” he demands in Moran’s ear, before inclining his head to nip at Moran’s earlobe.

     “You are sir!” Moran cries. “Only you, Professor! Always you!”

     “Good boy, Moran; my good boy,” Moriarty murmurs and slides his right hand down to Moran’s prick, to roughly stroke him. He drops his left hand from Moran’s throat also, moving it back to his chest; to stroke him; to gently pinch a nipple. He has slowed his thrusts down a degree, fucking Moran slowly and deeply and with a great deal more tenderness even as he presses his teeth into the nape of Moran’s neck. “My dearest Moran,” he says.

     Moran twists his face around then, perhaps almost painfully so but seemingly heedless of this discomfort. Moriarty kisses him and Moran hungrily kisses him back, greedily accepting every bit of combined dominance and affection. Seeing his lover’s unrestrained need and want and even _love_ sends a strange shiver through Moriarty’s chest and chills down his spine. _The perfect companion_ , he thinks, perfectly devoted, perfectly submissive. He had never even dreamed that such a thing was possible to find.

      Only two more pumps of the professor’s hand on his cock and Moran is coming under him, spilling onto the towel, his body tensing around Moriarty’s own length which is planted deep within the colonel. Moran’s reaction; his desperate, choked cry of _“James!”_ and that exquisite feeling of tightness wrapped around his own arousal quickly combine to overwhelm the professor also, and he too achieves his release, spending deep inside his lover while suppressing his own cry of pleasure by biting the back of Moran’s neck.

     Moriarty collapses, panting, on top of Moran a few moments after both of them have climaxed. His breathing is still ragged when he speaks.

     “ _Who_ is your master, Sebastian?” he asks again.

     “You are, sir.”

     “Good boy.” Shifting further onto the bed to lie on his side, Moriarty pulls Moran against his chest again, relishing how his lover shuffles further into the embrace despite the discomfort he must surely be in. He leaves one leg draped loosely over Moran’s for a time as a more relaxed way to still imply his dominance over him as he undoes the straps around Moran’s wrists and neck.

     Moran lies contentedly, nestled in the professor’s arms. The after effects of his orgasm and the lingering effects of the caning combine to make him feel almost slightly delirious, a little feverish even, but it is a pleasant sensation.

    “One might assume, Sebastian,” Moriarty says at length, “that you were being deliberately provocative earlier.”

     Moran snorts slightly at this before he smirks faintly. “Me, sir? Course not.”

    “Of course not,” Moriarty echoes, smiling.

     Moran has almost dozed off when at last he feels Moriarty shift behind him.

     “Stay there,” the professor says gently in his ear, before his warm weight is withdrawn from the colonel.

     Moran is not troubled by this though. He does not bother to open his eyes, sure that if and when any effort is required of him then the professor will tell him so.

     Moriarty returns to sit on the bed beside Moran, bearing a basin of warm water and a bottle of something with a faint medicinal aroma about it, with a soft cloth and a clean towel draped over his arm. He puts the basin on the bedside table; the cloth and towel he sets on the bed.

     “Moran, sit up for a moment,” he instructs.

     Moran does so, opening his eyes to see Moriarty pick up a glass of clean, cold water from the table and bring this to him. Carefully the professor puts this to Moran’s lips and lets him drink until his thirst is slaked. Then he brings over the basin of much warmer water and dips the cloth into it.

     Moran lies back down, content to let the professor get on with cleaning him. Often things are the other way round – he will be the one to clean up the professor, mindful of Moriarty’s dislike of the messy elements of sex. But during some of their more extreme games it is the professor who cares for Moran afterwards, washing him; tending to any cuts or bruises, and the colonel admires how meticulous he is about this aspect of their relationship.

     He stirs slightly at the first touch of the damp cloth on his inflamed skin but settles soon enough as the professor carefully washes him down, wiping away the faint traces of blood and the sweat from Moran’s back before turning his attention to the front. After this he pats Moran’s skin dry with the towel before opening the bottle and tipping a little of the ointment onto his hand.

     “ _Sir_ ,” Moran hisses through his teeth when the contents of the bottle hit the area where the skin has been broken, and he squirms a little.

     “Don’t fidget so, Sebastian,” Moriarty scolds him in a mild tone, rubbing the ointment carefully into his skin. “It will help.”

     Moran glances back at him, looking somewhat cynical, but trusting.

     “It is a pity, is it not,” Moriarty muses, rubbing more of the ointment into the backs of Moran’s thighs, “that none of these marks will last.” He runs his finger briefly over one of the welts across Moran’s backside. “Perhaps we should consider something more…” He lets his gaze drift up to meet Moran’s. “Permanent.”

      Moran snorts again. “What’ll you do, brand me like a cow?” He laughs.

     “Not a cow; more a prize bull, but no, intriguing as the idea is; I was thinking more like… tattooing, perhaps.”

    “And how would I explain having your name tattooed across my _arse_ to my doctor next time you drag him in to tend to me?” The colonel grins more broadly before settling back down onto the bed, letting the professor continue to massage the ointment into his skin. Despite the initial sting of it, the sensation is actually quite pleasant.

     Moriarty laughs too, genuinely amused by such a notion. “I did not necessarily refer to tattooing your _derriere_ ,” he points out. “Besides…” He trails his fingers up to briefly touch the army crest tattooed on Moran’s arm. “Surely you would prefer to have my mark of ownership upon you, something to eclipse this one.”

      Moran grimaces at this rather permanent reminder of his aborted army career. It is still a sore point with him. “Maybe.” He presses his face back into the coverlet. “I’ll think about it.”

     “Of course. I am not pressuring you.” Moriarty wipes the traces of ointment from his hands with the towel.

     Moran laughs again as he twists over onto his side to better look up at the professor. “You always get what you want from me.”

     “Only because what I want, pet, always so perfectly coincides with your own latent desires.” Moriarty winks at him as he picks up the basin, cloth and towels and leaves the room.

      Moran, having initially pulled a wry face at the professor’s last remark, lies half on his back and considers the matter more thoroughly. He seems engrossed in thought still even when Moriarty returns.

     “You look vexed, pigeon,” Moriarty remarks as he begins to undress himself properly, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Do you not agree, you are in thrall to me – physically, emotionally, _sexually_ \- precisely because you wish it to be that way?”

      “Sir, I… I don’t…” Moran sits up, putting his hands into his lap, and furrows his brow, still pondering this. “You’d have me killed if I tried to leave you – you said as much when you first employed me.”

     “And that is the sole reason you remain with me, hmm?” Moriarty arches his eyebrow at Moran whilst a smile flashes across his features. “That is the only reason you come to my bed night after night? Why you willingly submit to acts such as that we have just participated in? True, Sebastian, I could not allow you to leave my employment, knowing all the things you know, but that is in regards to your job. Being my companion; my bed-warmer; even my sexual plaything… these were never part of your job. I did not expect them of you, much less demand them.”

     Moran looks down at his hands, twisting them together in his lap. He dislikes it when the professor speaks, however obliquely, about the colonel’s love for him, fearing that for all Moriarty’s affection towards him still the professor regards such emotions as foolish things and that he likes to pick apart Moran’s regard for him because it amuses him to think that Moran feels something for him that he will never feel for Moran. It is an illogical fear, he knows that really, for the professor is never so callous towards him, but still, Moriarty raising such matters makes him feel vulnerable in a way even being naked and bound and gagged before the professor cannot.

     “Or would you prefer to think that these are actions I have coerced you into after all?” Moriarty enquires. “Is that easier for you to bear?”

     “No sir!” Moran snaps his gaze up to meet the professor’s again. “I wouldn’t, and you haven’t, I know that, I just…”

      “There is no shame in what we do together, whatever society says about men like us.”

     “I know, I ain’t ashamed of… of lying with you, or any other man.” Moran says this almost fiercely, his gaze not deviating from Moriarty’s.

     “I see then.” Moriarty regards Moran momentarily whilst he washes himself. “It is your own craving to submit to such degradation; such discomfort, even pain; _that_ is what you are ashamed of?”

      “I’m not ashamed!” Moran snaps, but Moriarty looks back at him so steadily, so unflinchingly and so thoroughly disbelievingly that Moran has to look away again.

     “Perhaps not,” Moriarty concurs at last. “Perhaps shame is not strictly the right word. You do, however, question your own strength; whether what you desire makes you weak. It does not, Sebastian.” 

     “Sir…” Moran looks away, clearly torn between his desperate desire to believe this and his own doubts manifested from ideas that have been drummed into him over many years by countless others.

    “Would I allow a weak man so close to me?” Moriarty queries. “By my side; into my bed? Would I allow myself to rely upon a weak man?”

     “No sir.” Moran’s gaze flicks very briefly back up to meet the professor’s.

     “Well then.” Moriarty drops the washcloth into the basin and begins to towel himself dry. While he pulls on his nightshirt he sees how Moran is clearly still considering this matter. It might seem surprising to others, he muses, that the audacious, cocksure colonel could have such a sensitive, vulnerable side, but then Moran would never have revealed that side of himself to others. He is no fool; he would never expose his soft underbelly to just anyone; certainly not to anyone that he did not trust implicitly, and there have been precious few people in the colonel’s life that he has trusted so.

     Moriarty pulls back the bed covers and climbs into the bed, propping himself up against the pillows again, reclining there with his legs slightly parted. This enables him to pat the space between them, indicating to Moran that he wants him to come closer. Moran obeys, crawling over until he is sitting there in the professor’s lap, though he seems unable to meet Moriarty’s gaze momentarily.

     “It’s just…”

     “Look at me.” Moriarty gently grips the colonel’s chin, turning Moran’s face towards his.

     “I was a colonel, sir.”

     “As far as I am concerned you still are.”

     “I had men under my control.”

     “You still do.”

     “It’s not the same though, is it?”

     “You are unhappy with your position?” Moriarty gently strokes Moran’s cheekbone with his thumb.

     “No sir, I’m not, not at all, I just… It’s just new to me, Professor, all of this – submitting to someone like I do to you.”

     “It is new to me also,” Moriarty points out. “Having such a relationship; finding such a perfect companion as you. It was not something I ever considered, nor even desired before I met you. I had never felt that I was missing out on something when I saw other men with their wives, or even their mistresses, no matter how often some of them tried to convince me I should follow their example. But then…”

     Moran grins. “I fell into your lap?”

     The professor smiles warmly. “Indeed you did, and for all my reservations about entering into such a close relationship with anyone, I was not about to cast you aside when you seemed to fit so perfectly with me.”

     Moran looks into the professor’s blue-grey eyes and is reminded anew that Moriarty has, deep down, just as many doubts and insecurities as he does. The professor is not like him in some very significant ways; he does not experience that supposedly innate pull towards others – sexual longing; romantic desire. Something then that to Moran seemed unconscious is, in Moriarty, far more of a matter for conscious deliberation – his decision to take on an intimate companion was surely a momentous one when it had never even occurred to him before that he should ever want such a thing. For all his self-confidence, for all his dominance, there are still areas where the professor remains peculiarly clueless and even (though he will so rarely admit to it) fearful – fearful that Moran will throw him over for one who experiences the same attraction as him; that Moran will reject him for one with far more sexual knowledge and experience than he has. Not like him then in some regards, but exactly like Moran in others. This thought is strangely comforting to the colonel.

     Moran leans forward, mindful not to seem too forthright, too assertive, and kisses the professor softly on the lips.

    “We will have no more talk of weakness, hmm?” Moriarty says after a moment, stroking Moran’s hair. “Weak men are a liability; you however are an asset.”

    “Right sir.” Moran kisses him again before rolling over to lie beside the professor. He has to shift around a little to find a position that does not aggravate his sore backside but lying on his side proves to be comfortable enough. He settles there, close by Moriarty’s side, while the professor takes up his book again.

     “If you don’t mind, I’d like to continue reading for a few minutes. You go to sleep though if you wish.”

    “’s fine with me, Professor.” Moran closes his eyes, feeling suddenly immensely weary. Their games can take a lot out of him and though he could force himself promptly into a state of alertness if it was required of him, he knows he is free to relax now.

     Moriarty resumes his reading, though after a few minutes he glances down at Moran, who seems to be asleep already. The colonel does not stir as the professor leans over him slightly and pulls the bedcovers further over him, doing so carefully so as not to chafe Moran’s sore skin. However when he presses a light kiss to Moran’s forehead he notes a sleepy smile flit across his lover’s features, which draws a brief smile out of the professor also. His colonel, his Sebastian, so perfectly trusting in him. Not so long ago he would not have even dreamed he would enjoy such a thing, having such a constant, close companion; someone so completely devoted to him and so thoroughly trusting. He might even have sneered at such a thought but now, now he cannot conceive of having things any other way.


End file.
